


Set Thine Heart Toward the Highway

by elynross



Category: Little Women Series - Louisa May Alcott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:31:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1624463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elynross/pseuds/elynross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As family and friends gather for Christmas, old feelings rise to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Set Thine Heart Toward the Highway

**Author's Note:**

> Written for maybedarkpink

 

 

_"Of course you did. You always have things to suit you."  
"Not always," and something in Laurie's voice made Jo say hastily..._

* * *

The Christmas tree was quite the largest Amy Laurence had ever seen, glittering and magical, the kind of thing she'd dreamed of as a child, and underneath were more presents than ever she'd imagined possible, even in her flights of fancy for her schoolmates years ago. Mr. Laurence had taken them all into his home, and his heart, and meant for it to be the best Christmas possible, if he had anything to say about it.

Everywhere she went there were signs of the season: the kitchen and servants' hall were bustling with preparations; Meg and Marmee had the twins over at the old house, baking cookies and decorating with popcorn and cranberries and all the homey means of her youth; and Jo's professor and the boys were madly at work in the drawing room, creating the stage and sorting out the props and costumes for the Christmas pageant they were putting on for the household, in thanks for the very great generosity of Mr. Laurence and his grandson, who connived together at every opportunity to find ways around Jo's pride, and to make sure that Plumley had the best they could manage without putting Jo into a temper. More than once Laurie had pleaded with Amy to soothe her sister's indignation, and though she never was as good at it as dear sweet Beth had been, Jo usually did give way eventually when the good of her boys was at stake.

Normally Amy would have been in the thick of things, her taste and talent much in demand, but this afternoon she was shy of company, so she wandered the house a bit, keeping out of sight. There were garlands and candles everywhere she looked, and if she had thought she could away with it, she'd have ripped every inch of them down and stamped them into the ground with her delicate little foot.

It was all Laurie's fault, all of it, she thought petulantly. Carefully and selfishly forgetting that she wanted a child every bit as much as he did, at the moment she thought she'd give anything to have her familiar, slim figure back, to be able to sit comfortably, stand comfortably -- to be comfortable, period. And there were so few moments in the day when she felt anything but miserable. All of the brimming holiday cheer was a bane to her sore nerves, and rather than risk being a damper on their spirits, she did her best to keep to herself. That only seemed possible in the quiet of her room, where only her maid and Laurie himself disturbed her, but she'd been so often in bed with ill health lately, she couldn't bear to stay there another moment if she could help it.

And most of all, she wanted everyone to stop being so wretchedly _kind_ to her every time she lashed out at them, or cried on them, or sulked. Jo's boys fell all over themselves fetching everything she needed, running errands for her, dropping out of trees to see if there were anything she wanted, please, ma'am, can I help? Earlier they'd even interrupted a rousing snowball fight to set to and clear a path for her over to Marmee's, when she had only wanted to creep quietly over and pretend that she was still the spoiled darling of that best-loved woman. Then, when she finally arrived it was to find a full-fledged party with Meg and the twins, and Marmee at the center of it. Oh, her mother had been glad to see her, and they'd cleared a place for her to sit and watch and wanted her to join in, but it was so far from what she'd been hoping for that she only stayed a short time before making her way back to the mansion.

All she wanted was a little peace and quiet, she thought wearily, lightly rubbing her stomach. Her condition was just turning everything upside-down, changing her from a charming, lovely, patient, sweet-natured woman into a pettish, sulky, horrid little shrew. She couldn't understand why anyone would _want_ to help her with anything, and she loved them all dearly for it.

Or she would, as soon as she was herself again.

Standing in the hallway, torn between returning to her dull room or perhaps interrupting Mr. Laurence in the library, she spun a bit as the stairs disgorged a boy at high speed, who seemed to simultaneously yelp, "Criminy!" and apologize profusely, both for his boisterousness and his language, as he caught at her arm to help her catch her balance and proceeded to throw an armful of odds and ends on the floor.

He crouched down and started picking things up. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Laurence, begging your pardon, the Professor would have my head, he would, racing around like that, but--"

Amy smiled and patted his arm, feeling quite old when faced with such youthful energy. "It's quite all right, child, I'm fine. Have you seen my husband lately?"

He grinned and nodded, pointing towards the Conservatory. "I saw young Mr. Laurence go in there with Mrs. Professor when I went upstairs not ten minutes ago. Oh, don't bother, I can get that," he added as Amy started to bend forward for a stray garment.

Feeling more useless than ever, Amy saw him run off towards the drawing room, and turned towards the Conservatory. Perhaps Laurie would help her sort out her pettishness.

The steam pipes lining the conservatory kept it warm, and Amy relaxed a little bit, breathing in the earthy smells. All the living plants soothed her in a way the dead, decorative bits had not. She walked along the path, slowly and quietly, and heard her husband and sister before she could see them. She brightened and picked up her pace for a few steps, then stopped as she heard Laurie speak in low, intimate tones. At first she simply did not want to interrupt, and then she was seized by the remnants of an old fear as she peered through the leaves, eavesdropping even though she knew in her heart that one never learned anything good that way.

* * *

Jo sat on the bench, watching Laurie inspect the leaves of a nearby plant, as if he knew what he was looking for, and steeled herself against his cajoling.

"I could help, you know." Laurie glanced at her from under his lashes, knowing that it always charmed her -- as it did. He felt light-headed and wicked, the breathless scapegrace again, and yet underlying it was a feeling he was not sure he liked so much, something darker and exciting. It pulled at him, like a strong current, and he wasn't sure whether he wanted more to swim to safety, or feel it roll him under, whirling him in the undertow. Things had gone wrong somehow, lately, between himself and Amy, and as she pulled away, he felt lost, and empty; and as he dwelt in his own self-pitying, loathsome thoughts, the melancholy had grown, ever larger and darker, until he was no longer sure he could resist its tugging.

And then Jo had blown in, sharp and bright and laughing, her vibrant liveliness in stark contrast to Amy's pallid, resentful manner, and he'd felt his resistance to that dark tide slip a notch -- or two.

Jo looked at him sharply, sighing. She was no longer just the scatter-brained child she'd been, and this was a very serious thing for her. "Oh, Laurie, I know you could, but--"

"I don't like to think of you going without, Jo," he said earnestly, moving to sit next to her, quite close, even as that dark feeling urged him closer.

"You're a sweetheart, Laurie, but you have your own family to think of. And I'm quite comfortable, you know, with Plumley and my boys. We're not truly wanting, and it's not as if you and your father don't get quite enough by me," she said, her voice couched in a mocking scold. This was the first time she'd been alone with Laurie since they'd arrived, and she'd thought to have a grand time with him, laughing and sharing stories of her boys, which he always enjoyed. Instead she found a moody, strange boy, almost recognizable from the past, but a boy she'd thought gone and swallowed by the fine man he'd become, and it worried her.

Laurie laughed, a stab of guilt piercing him. He thrust it petulantly aside, guilt an ugly sensation he didn't care to feel. "You know as well as I do that I could help you much more than this, and they wouldn't go wanting."

Jo patted his hand comfortingly where it rested on his knee, unaware of his desire to clasp it and hold it close, trying to keep things comfortable and usual between them, even as she felt undercurrents she could not, and was afraid she did not want to, understand. "There, dear, we'll manage. It's very kind of you to want to help, but we're not that desperate yet."

Laurie's laugh this time was harsh, and he felt it burn his throat. "How comforting, that you'd have to be desperate before you'd turn to me."

"Now, Laurie, you know I didn't mean it like that," Jo said awkwardly, feeling that things were slipping out of her grasp, again sensing that there was more going on than the simple friendly talk she'd thought to have when he steered her into the conservatory.

"Do I? I don't know what I know anymore." And as he said it, he felt it to be both true and untrue.

Jo watched anxiously as he stood up and stalked to the edge of the paved area before turning and coming back, crouching down before her to take her hand. She felt a mad urge to pull it back, but she couldn't believe that such a thing was happening, that her Laurie had lost all good sense.

"You know, there was a time when I wanted to be very kind to you. When I wanted to be able to take care of anything you'd ever want." The dark tide surged, splashing over him, pulling him deeper, trying to drown him.

When she felt the stroke of his thumb over the back of her hand, she did pull it away, quite flustered. "Oh, Laurie, don't--"

"Don't what, Jo? Pretend that I don't sometimes still think of you, still wonder what might have been, if only--" And it became true as he said it, mad things spilling from his lips, knowledge of exactly what might have been altered by the months of marriage and intimacy. He felt a certain uncleanness shudder through him, but the madness had hold, and he couldn't seem to stop.

She took hold of a handful of his hair and shook him half-gently, half-sharply, sighing, determined to treat this as the idle whim of a moment. "If only what, dearest? If I'd been foolish enough to give into your boyish whimsy? We both know that it never would have worked."

Laurie pulled away, wincing slightly as she was slow in letting go. "No, I _don't_ know that, Jo! You never gave us a chance, never even considered--"

Jo's tone was just the tiniest bit more waspish when she answered, folding her hands tightly in her lap, wishing herself anywhere else, trying to hold on to her rising temper and impatience. "No, I didn't, and if you'd had any sense, you'd have seen it, too. We never would have suited, not one bit, not like you and Amy, and I and the Professor--"

Laurie stood and threw a hand in the air, jealousy biting him, a jealousy he'd truly thought banished forever. "The Professor! How romantic, you call him by his title. Really, I don't know what you see in him, with his rumpled clothes and his wild hair--"

"That's enough, Laurie," Jo said, her voice hard and cold. "If you can't see what I see in my dear Fritz, then you understand so little-- I don't even know that I know you, anymore. And what of poor Amy!"

"Poor Amy," Laurie repeated, bitterly. "Poor Amy has no time for me anymore. She's so wrapped up in the baby--"

"That's your child, too! And don't you forget it!" Her anger felt white-hot, that he could say and think such things, and that he could try and make her part of it.

"Do you think she lets me?" he said savagely.

There was silence for a time, and Jo's face went white. "Do you want to forget?" she asked, in a dreadful voice, her anger leached away in an instant into something colder and far more deadly.

Laurie flung himself down on the bench and hung his head, staring down at his clasped hands. "I don't know."

"Don't you?" and this time Jo's voice was kinder, but sorrow-laden, and she ached to comfort him, even as she wanted to be away from this man she did not know, so different from her own dear Laurie.

"I suppose I do. I mean, yes, I do. I don't want to forget, only sometimes... " His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Sometimes I think I do. Sometimes I wish it were just you and me, and things were like they used to be, Jo." He looked up at her, and the tears in his eyes broke her heart. "I did love you, Jo. I still do, I think. I know I said it had changed, but sometimes--"

Jo leaned in and put her arms around him, her heart breaking at the savage desperation in his voice, not knowing what to say or do, simply reacting to the underlying confusion she felt from him. "Oh, Teddy, my sweet boy."

Taking that as a sign that her heart had softened to him, seeking something, anything, to keep him from drowning, Laurie slid a hand up and turned her face towards him, leaning his head in to hers, and he slid under the water without hesitation.

* * *

From her vantage point behind the trees, Amy heard most of their exchange, and her hand went to her mouth, where she bit her hand to keep from crying out. She knew that Laurie was unhappy with her, but she'd thought it a thing of no consequence, something she would mend when she felt better. She'd long ago given over any thought of jealousy of Jo, hearing from Laurie's own mouth that anything he'd felt was in the past, and yet here he was, talking to Jo as a lover did -- as he hadn't talked to Amy for some time. And if the thought crossed her mind that she had not let him, that she'd pushed him away more often than not as she grew increasingly heavy with child and her beauty had waned, she cut it off harshly, for she would not be the one at fault here. Her own temper rose as she listened, but it was drowned in the pain of her heart, the tears that ran silently down her face.

And yet she could not move, neither forward to confront them, nor away to save herself more pain -- until Laurie bent his head to Jo's, the look on his face eager.

Even as she fled, her heart breaking, she moved silently, unwilling to call their attention to her, in no fit state to speak or be seen. Her hand pressed to her stomach as she ran, and she kept her other pressed to her mouth, afraid she was going to be ill.

The Professor looked up from the floor as Amy flew past the door, hand still to her mouth. "Franz, look you out for Demi and Daisy, there's a goot boy, I haf need to go for a moment."

He found her in the salon, sunk down on a chaise longue, one arm clenched to her chest, sobbing into a kerchief. "Amy, child, was is the matter?"

Her muffled sobs turned into hiccoughs as she looked up at him, blue eyes swimming in tears. "Oh, Professor!"

He sat down next to her, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. "There, there, child, you cry as if your heart were broke. Surely it cannot be so bad?"

She shook her head mutely, then hiccoughed again. "It is, Professor, you don't understand, you can't! It's horrid and vile, and it will never be well again."

He smiled indulgently. "Perhaps you should be telling me of it. Often things haf much worse seeming when we keep them to ourselves, yes? -- Or would you haf me to fetch Laurie for you?"

He blinked when Amy shrunk back, shaking her head wildly. "No! No, please don't. He's-- That's why I'm so upset."

"Why, Amy, dear one, whatever can the boy haf done to make you so?" he said in bewilderment, for he, like everyone, saw how Laurie doted on his little woman, and could not imagine his causing such heartbreak as Fritz heard within her disconsolate sobs.

Amy looked at him through her tears, torn between needing someone to confide in and comfort her, and not wanting to see the good-natured, worried affection in his eyes turn to something darker and broken, for she could not see how anyone could withstand Laurie when he set himself to be loverlike. If she had had a clear head, unmuzzied by tears and shock, she would have remembered that Jo had turned aside Laurie's attentions before, more than once; and she would have known, as well, in her heart of hearts, that Jo, at least, would never do anything to intentionally hurt her.

Her view of Laurie at the moment might have been less sanguine, even were her spirit clear, for in spite of her belief that she had put all thoughts of jealousy behind her, still they dwelt in a hidden part of her bosom, lingering there, sleeping, until they woke to the sound of her heart breaking and leapt in glee to seed her sore soul with doubt.

The Professor, being a good-hearted, blunt old thing, hated to see anyone cry, let alone someone who had grown so dear to his heart as this child, and he was intent on getting to the bottom of things. "Tell me of it, child. Unburden yourself to dear old Fritz, who will then set himself the task of soothing you and explaining away each thing that has you so overset."

She sniffed, and perhaps one of those planted seeds bloomed into a dark need to share her pain, even at the possible cost of pain to another; or perhaps God's hand was upon her and had led her to one man who, even knowing of the source of her sorrow, would be unable to believe in such a betrayal from his wife, his own dear Josephine. For the Professor was a simple man, not in mind, in the unkind fashion that some might think him, but in heart and faith, and since his Jo had agreed that they went excellently well together, he had never a doubt in his heart about her, and no ground for such doubts to grow, little as he might understand why he should be such a lucky man.

With such grace he coaxed that in a short time Amy spilled it all out, and in this the Professor was right, that once her burden was shared, while it was no less hard to bear, she no longer felt the sharp horror of it that had pursued her from the conservatory, as if the very hounds of hell were at her feet. And the calm strength and confidence in his eyes soothed her, as they continued undimmed by her revelation. She was able to pull herself together further, until they were sitting side by side. Her eyes were still red-rimmed, and her face pale, but she no longer looked like he would need to seek out assistance for her.

Fritz himself was anxious, not for his own sake, but for that of the sweet child beside him. It is true he had no concern for his own sake, and before this moment he could not have imagined any fracture in the obvious affection Laurie had always shown for his wife, from the first time Fritz had met him, but Amy's own tear-stained countenance belied his faith. And yet, though he did not want to belittle her concerns, he could not believe that she had heard aright, that things were such that they could not be sorted out to the peace and satisfaction of all concerned. "I'm sure if we talk to them, it will all turn out a misunderstanding," he said comfortingly, patting her shoulder.

Amy smiled wanly, her spirits still low, but her practical head already working on what she must do. "You may be right, Fritz, but even so, I couldn't bear Laurie to think I was such a fool. Please promise me you won't talk to him? I'd be ever so grateful."

Giving such a promise troubled him, for he felt that keeping such secrets never led one to a good place, but he nodded. "I will not, for your sake, child, but I beg you to talk wit him your own self."

She smiled, but it was a false smile, and it hurt his heart to see it. "I'll do that, Professor. Soon."

His heart stayed heavy as he went back to the boys, and even through their rough and tumble preparations, he was quiet and thoughtful, though they tried to jolly him out of it, and threw each other worried looks that their Father Bhaer was so unlike himself.

* * *

For a moment Laurie's lips rested against hers, for Jo was so unable to believe what had happened that it took her that moment to come to her senses. As soon as she had she brought her hands up and pushed sharply on his shoulders, sending him tumbling to the ground as she raised a hand to her mouth and looked at him wide-eyed in horror. "Theodore Laurence, you are a silly, wretched boy, and I cannot believe--"

Words failed her, and she looked at him as he sat on the ground, an ugly flush on his face.

For himself, Laurie felt both embarrassed and angry, though at whom was unclear to him at the moment, and overwhelming both of those was a sick, loathsome feeling that things had gotten away from him, that what had seemed an idle thought had grown into something that threatened to do dreadful damage both to him, and those he cared for. And yet there was some part of him that gloried in what he'd wrought, that selfishly wanted to disregard good sense, and truth, and all that was good and right in his world, and carry him off with it. That was what spoke through him next.

"I love you, Jo. I never should have--"

Jo stopped him by the simple measure of standing up and walking away, rapidly, unable to hear anymore.

Laurie leapt to his feet and followed her, catching her sleeve, holding on tightly when she tried to shake him off. "Jo, listen to me--"

She turned on him fiercely, her eyes snapping, her temper roused to new heights. "I will _not_ listen to you, Teddy! What you say is madness, and it's wrong, it's wrong, and I will not be a part of it. You are married -- we are _both_ married, Teddy! And it's foolishness and you don't mean a word of it, you're just-- I don't know what you're doing, I don't at all, and I don't think you do, either." She heaved a breath, this close to crying, and she thought the tears might sear her face, if she did. "And if you do mean it, then I don't want to know you. If you mean it, Theodore Laurence, I shall go this minute and gather my boys, and my Friedrich, and we will leave this house, for I cannot stay here another moment with someone so changed as you would be, if you mean it."

Laurie took a step back, wide-eyed, his throat tight, the dark, empty thoughts that had so eaten at him lately falling back under the heat of Jo's magnificent rage. "Jo, I--" And words failed him, because he _didn't_ know why he had said those things, and yet some part of him still whispered that perhaps they were true.

Jo wrapped her arms tightly around herself, cold even in the warmth of the conservatory, and shook her head. "You don't know what you're saying, Laurie," she said, her voice breaking. "You can't."

Laurie took a step toward her, holding out a hand, and she flinched away from him. That, more than anything, brought him as much to his senses as he could be brought, and he fisted that hand up and pulled it in tight to his side. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Jo," he whispered. "I should be happy, married to a wonderful woman, who is going to bear me a child, and yet--" He looked at her, dark eyes wide and pained. "I'm so lonely, Jo. It's like Amy doesn't care, and I--" He looked down at his clenched hand, wondering if he would draw blood. "I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't love me anymore."

And then Jo couldn't bear it anymore, and saw that under it all he was still her Teddy, her foolish, wretched, headstrong boy, and she pulled him into her arms, holding him tight, until she felt his shoulders shaking under her hands. She petted his hair, murmuring words of comfort. And when his heaving shoulders stilled, she spoke gently. "Laurie, you never loved me, not like that. You know it's true."

He raised his head then, and looked at her, and for the first time she saw that the boy she had known truly was gone, replaced by a man, with a man's cares, and a man's demons, and even as she loved him dearly, she thanked God she'd had the wisdom to turn him down, for two such as they would never have had peace between them.

"I really don't, Jo. Why must you say such cruel things?"

She shook him slightly, without removing her arms, then laid her head on his shoulder. "Because they're true. You were in love with some idea of me you had, some romantic idea that never suited me, and never would. I was made for someone like Friedrich, someone who won't mind my rages and my funny ideas, who won't go off and sulk at the same time I do, and who won't jolly me out of my sulk before I've had time to realize that my temper's gotten the best of me again."

She smiled against his shoulder. "You always did spoil me, Laurie, and it's not good for me." She sat up and swept his curls back off his face. "Now, Amy, she's the girl for spoiling. She just takes it as her due and doesn't let it go to her head, not like she used to. And you love her, much more than you ever thought you once loved me. The two of you are best-suited for each other. I never could have made you a good wife, Laurie, dear. I'd have had ink all over my dresses when the other wives came to call, and if I heard them ring at all, I'd have been terribly cross and made a horrible impression. Amy loves that sort of thing, and you love that she's so good at it. You're terribly proud of her, admit it."

Laurie smiled, unwillingly, but there was still a great deal of grief in the shadows of his face. "I am, I suppose. But... she doesn't seem like the Amy that I married, Jo. She's so cold, so... I wonder sometimes if _she_ still loves _me_." He flushed, and Jo raised an eyebrow.

"And have you gone out of your way to make sure she knows you still care? Her time has been very difficult," she said, flushing slightly. "It's not surprising that she's been... distant," she said delicately. "You have to be patient with each other. And you have to be strong for her," she said meaningfully.

Laurie winced a bit at the admonition, but felt that he had been thrown a rope, something that might help him keep his head above water, and grinned wanly. "I'm known for my patience, you know."

She released him and cuffed him gently, and his grin widened, and suddenly life seemed more possible again.

"I really don't know what you see in him, Jo," he said quietly. "He's a brick, but he doesn't deserve you."

"Don't you start that again," she said warningly, raising her hand again. "Fritz is a prize above rubies, a veritable feast for the soul, my very own country of Beulah. He brings me peace, Laurie, and joy of spirit, and I won't have you say a word against him. If anyone is undeserving, it's me."

"All right, Jo, don't be mad at me. I didn't say I didn't like the old man, just--"

"Laurie! He's _not_ old! He's just the right age," she cried, laughing against her will, wondering if it was that, or cry. "You terrible, terrible boy."

"I'm not a boy, Jo," and some of that dark longing was back in his voice, and she set her mouth firmly against it, as her heart was already fortified by another's love and her own good sense.

"You are, Laurie, especially today," she said stoutly, knowing it was untrue, for it was a man's demons that pursued him. "You are my boy, and you always will be. Don't forget that. Don't ever forget it -- but don't ever forget that you'll never be more, either. I won't have this conversation again, and I won't be a part of anything that would hurt Amy -- and this would hurt her so, Laurie. It would hurt her ever so."

"I know," he said, in a small, quiet voice, and her heart near broke again, as does a mother's upon hearing the pain in her child's voice.

* * *

The Professor stayed deep in thought as he climbed the stairs to dress for dinner, things being more formal in the Laurence house, and even though for him dressing usually involved letting his Jo empty his pockets and tug and pull him smooth and presentable again. He looked woefully at his boy-tousled self and wondered if his other suit were more presentable.

Jo herself was sitting at the desk in her room, busily writing away, when he came to it, and he smiled to see it. He believed that Amy's pain was real, but could not believe that there was any true cause for it, at the same time. A woman in her delicate condition... a tendency towards drama would not be unheard of.

As he was thinking this, Jo looked up and smiled at him, beckoning him into the room, and he looked at her closely, wondering if what Amy had seen had caused Jo any sorrow, wanting to speak to her of it, but unsure where to start. His promise to Amy had not included not talking to Jo, and he would never have agreed to it if it had, believing that secrets such as this were fatal to trust, and also knowing that he was never able to keep anything from his perceptive wife.

"It's good you came, sir, or I would have lost myself entire in this, and then you would have had to send that pack of heathens after me for dinner." Jo herself had decided not to worry Fritz with her own anxiousness, and both the way she had left things with Laurie, and the time she'd spent turning it over in her mind led her to believe that things would solve themselves in time, and she'd be better off not meddling, a rare decision for her. She had decided to speak with her mother at the earliest opportunity, however, should she see any greater cause for concern. That fine woman would surely have wisdom for her, in a case where she felt sadly lacking herself.

Decisions made, she'd cleared her mind and set to her writing with a will, wanting to tie off a last few loose ends in the play the boys would perform that evening. Having finished that and sent it off with Emil for the boys to study and commit to memory, she continued on with a little story of her own, and if she worked out some of her remaining anxiety in this way, no one could fault her.

Fritz's continued silence alerted her, and she tilted her head to one side. "Is something wrong, dear one? You look troubled."

She reached up and smoothed a hand down his lapel, and his heart leapt a bit, as it still did for her. He caught her hand in his, and squeezed it tightly, holding it against his heart. "Nothing is wrong in the world, _liebchen_ , as long as thou lookest at me in that way."

She smiled, and her deep, abiding love for him shone in her face and made her even more beautiful to him. "Thou art very sweet, Friedrich -- and I know you mean every word," she said, one finger raised, forestalling his protestations. "But something is troubling you, I can tell."

He nodded, and looked around for another chair, pulling it up close by her. "I am troubled, my dear, and it is our dear Amy for whom I haf this trouble."

Jo felt a sense of dread come over her, as it seemed too much to ask that Amy's trouble be unconnected to her own difficulties with Laurie. "Tell me, for I think I already know what you're going to say, to my sorrow."

Fritz nodded, his own intuitions confirmed. "I think this too, _liebchen_ , for poor Amy has overheard her husband spilling his heart out to you -- at least that is what has happened, in her mind."

Jo looked closely at her husband, seeking any sign of discomfort or sorrow for his own part, and was greatly comforted and blessed to see that his dark eyes were clear and direct as they looked into hers. All his sorrow was for Amy, as was right. She patted his hand, squeezing it lightly. "She overheard us," she said, her heart tight in her chest.

"She heard something, and when I found her, she was crying as if her heart was broke. Tell me, dear one, what has that rascal done now?" There was no judgment in his voice that Jo could tell, nor any sign of jealousy, and that gladdened her heart.

She shook her head, biting her lip and staring out the window, thinking madly what to do. "He's a fool, Friedrich, a thoughtless, passionate fool, and for God only knows what reason he wants to believe that old feelings for me have become rekindled, but it's all moods and pettishness. Oh, darling, what a mess! I had so hoped it would just go away, fade from view like a bad dream."

"He has not made you unhappy, has he?"

She smiled sadly and squeezed his hand again. "Only in his stubbornness and importunity. I couldn't take him seriously, you know, for it's only Amy's moods, and the season, working on him -- working on them both, I know, for Amy has been ill-humored and short-tempered, as well, as much as she's fought to hide it." She grinned. "I thought it was really quite like old times, for a bit, to see her all petulant and dramatic -- but not if it's come to this," she said, sobering.

She sighed again, and Fritz reached for her, pulling her into his lap, where she rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes as he stroked her hair. It did not occur to him that Jo might be worried for his peace of mind, for his own belief in her was so strong that he could not conceive that she might think to concern herself so. His worry was all for the two sisters, caught in such a sorrowful plight.

They sat there for several moments, and Jo's heart eased for herself, but it still ached for her beloved sister. "I had thought to talk to Marmee, if things did not resolve themselves, but I wonder if that is best. It might just worry her needlessly." She looked up at him. "I really do think that it's nothing more than two silly young fools who have let themselves drift into their own separate worlds, and now neither can see a way back to the other. They do love each other, I know it. They just have to remember it."

"I promised the child I would not speak to Laurie," Fritz said hesitantly.

"Oh, no, she's right, you mustn't! I've already given him a good talking to, and if you were to go to him-- He'd be so embarrassed, and that would make him balky, and he'd just fight to throw off the traces." Fritz smiled inwardly at her colorful, unwomanly language.

She sat up, determined. "And Amy is exactly the one to manage him, you know. I blundered all over the place, making him angry and defensive. Even when he knows I'm right, he can't admit it."

Fritz laughed his deep, rumbling laugh. "As you would be so quick to do in his place, yes?"

Jo laughed ruefully, "As I would be so quick to do, _no_ , as thou well know." She shook her head. "That's one of the reasons we never would have suited, and the silly boy knows it. I don't know what's come over him."

"We are simple creatures, we men. We need to know you need us, and that you care about us, or we get odd," said the man who had never doubted his own place in Jo's life, once she showed it to him. "Perhaps the boy is simply feeling neglected."

"Oh, the cad, if that's it! With Amy so ill lately, and--" She stopped, overcome.

"I did not say it made sense, _liebchen_. And perhaps Amy has done too well her task of keeping his life running smoothly, so he has no idea that she needs him still. So many people there are to take care of things in this house, to make it all seem like magic."

She plucked at his lapels, her mouth pursed. "I suppose. I should talk to Amy, then, to see how she is, and to make sure she knows that it's all a tempest in a teapot."

He nodded, relieved. "Although for her, it is perhaps more serious than that. I would not give blame to Laurie too completely, though, for she needs not to be set against him, but to see how to help him, yes?"

"Yes, you're absolutely right. She's as likely to start defending him as curse him, if I go in there casting aspersions on him. No, I'll simply go and talk to her, and explain what she heard, as best I can, and see what I can do to make this right." She kissed his cheek. "It's a beastly business, sometimes, this growing up and being an adult. How two people do it together, like Laurie and Amy, I have no idea. If I didn't have people like Father and Marmee and you to guide me, I'd make a hopeless jumble of it, I know!"

"I gif all the credit to your marvelous parents, who did so well by you, and thereafter by myself. And now, I am as guided by thou, as thou by me, for I would have you be only yourself, the dear one of my heart."

* * *

Having set Fritz to rights and quickly changed her own dress, her concession to the Laurence's fine manners only going so far as a clean set of clothes and a scrub of her face, Jo sought out Amy, finding her primping in front of her mirror as her maid did arcane things with her hair. Not being one for the niceties of fashion herself, and having only been at the mansion for a day, Jo failed to see that the care Amy put into her toilette was greater than she had mustered for some few days previously. If she had, she would have known that her sister was already marshalling her forces. As it was, she crept in as tentatively as the Jos of this world know how, wanting only to help, and not further injure.

Amy saw her in her mirror, and waved her in merrily, smiling and gay, having spent some time considering her state, and how best to approach it. Tonight would mark her first sally on the field of battle, for battle it was, though her only opponent was her husband's own ill fancy. "Jo! Come and let Odette do something with your hair, it's a complete disaster."

Jo put her hands up and patted her simple style, shaking her head. "No thank you, indeed! Far too fine for the likes of me, you know. Simple and easy to care for, and well-pinned so it doesn't come tumbling down when I run with the boys."

Amy shook her head. "What a ragamuffin you still are, Jo, wild and carefree. Sometimes I envy you so."

She failed to completely conceal the wistful note of sorrow in her voice, and Jo sat near to her, her own face falling. "Oh, my dear Amy!"

Amy waved a hand at her, silencing her, and looked back into her mirror, tilting her head this way, and that, looking from all angles. Then she looked up at Odette, who was looking curiously back and forth between them, and said, "That's all, Odette. If I need anything else before dinner, I'll have Jo or Mr. Laurence help me."

Thus dismissed, Odette left, closing the door behind her, and Amy turned to Jo. "Now, what's this?" she asked, as if she hadn't an idea in the world as to what brought her sister to her side.

Jo knew her too well, though, and could see her paleness, even through her brave front, and as was her way, rushed right in. "Fritz told me that you heard us, Amy, and I'm so, so sorry. I had no idea what he wanted, and if I had, I never would have let him talk such rubbish at me. And you know that's all it is, darling, utter rubbish."

Amy laughed, though it lacked some of her usual sparkle. "Such language, Jo! I hope you set a better example for your boys that that."

"Pish-tosh, Amy, I'm a perfect paragon of virtue in front of them--" And as was her hope, that got a genuine smile from her sister "--but we must talk of this, you know we must."

"Must we," Amy said dully, and she tightened her fingers on her vanity to bring herself back under control. "Really, Jo, I don't know if I can."

"Oh, darling!" In a moment Jo was on her knees at Amy's side, arms around her waist, her head in that silk-covered lap. "I beg pardon for anything I've said or done that has caused you this unhappiness," she exclaimed.

Amy bent over her, petting her hair gently. "That really is a dreadful style, Jo," she said tenderly. "And it's naught to do with you, I don't think. I've just not been the companion that Laurie married, lately, and though I thought him different from other men, perhaps I esteemed him too highly. After all, he's but a man, and--" At this point, her voice broke, and she pulled a hand away to cover her mouth.

Jo looked up at her, and scowled fiercely, though her ferocity was directed at the absent. "Oh, Amy, it's all my fault! I should never have let Laurie talk to me that way. You know he didn't mean it, darling, surely you do!"

Amy smiled wanly. "But I'm not sure, Jo. I'm not sure at all! Oh, I don't think he's in love with you, any more than he ever was, but he's not happy, and that is partly my fault. I've neglected him shamefully." She rubbed her hands down over her stomach and looked distraught.

"He should be making you happy right now, Amy, not the reverse. It's selfish and childish of him to be so, when you're not well."

Amy laughed unsteadily. "But Laurie is selfish and childish, at least sometimes, you know that, Jo. All men are -- as are all women. None of us likes to feel unimportant or neglected."

"I don't mind being neglected," Jo said, grinning. "There's never enough time to do all the things I want to do, anyway, and if I'm neglected a little, there's more time for me."

"You think so, do you? And who is it that comes hunting out the poor Professor in the midst of his studies, if he goes too long without importuning you? And who is it must go roust the boys out for some fun if they don't drag you into it?"

Thinking back to her gladness at seeing Fritz arrive at her lonely desk, Jo was forced to admit that Amy had the right of it. "Yes, yes, you've made your point, I'm as prone to feeling neglected as anyone is, I admit it to my shame. But Amy, whatever are we to do about Laurie?"

"We're not going to do anything, Jo. He's my husband, and it's my mess to sort out." She patted Jo fondly on the shoulder, strengthened simply by saying these things out loud. "Don't worry at it, sister dear. I've had my little cry, and a little bit of drama. I'm better now, and so will we be. Husbands and wives have these moments, I suppose, when they're going in different directions and forget to take care of each other."

"The Professor takes much better care of me, than I of him," Jo said, and she meant it, though her husband would have been the first to deny it, for he was forever finding some small thing that she had done to make his life more comfortable. "Sometimes I think that he should be the wife, and I the husband, it might be simpler."

"You do your bit, and he loves you just as you are."

Jo smiled. "I think he does, though for the life of me I don't know why."

Amy looked down at her indulgently, and knew it to be true, for Jo had always sold herself too short. "You have a fire, Jo, that appeals to people, that makes them want to be near you, to warm themselves by that fire." She looked resolute. "And that's what Laurie has been wanting, a little bit of warmth, because he's felt his own hearth to be cold."

"You've had so much--"

Amy interrupted her, unwilling to go down that path. "I have, and I do, but I can still let my husband know that I need him, and that our fire hasn't gone out. He loves me, you're right, I do know that."

"If you like, I'll thrash him for you. He's a stubborn ass-- You know he is!" Jo exclaimed at Amy's shocked look, "And no use saying otherwise."

Amy shook her head at Jo's blunt, mannish language. "No, you're not to say a word to him, just leave him to me."

Jo sat back in her chair, shaking her head in wonderment. "You're much better than he deserves, you know."

"Of course I am," Amy laughed. "But he's the one I want, and I intend to keep him. And you must treat him no differently, Jo, for he will come to regret what he said, and when he does, he will feel shame sufficient to please even your vengeful heart." She smiled as she said it, and it was such an honest and sincere thing that Jo felt her true desire to have Laurie squirm a bit wilt under its gaze, and she nodded.

After that, both comforted and strengthened, as sisters will be by frank, honest talk, they spoke a bit of Jo's boys as Amy completed her toilette, and when Laurie came to see his wife down to dinner, both were calm enough in mind and spirit to greet him cordially, with no sign of sorrow or discontent.

For his part, Laurie had spent the intervening time first in a long walk in the cold, without his coat, as he felt he deserved no better, and then in talking to himself sternly, trying to sort out the muddle of his feelings. He wondered, truly, if it were possible to love two such different women so well, and wondered how he had ever come to choose between them.

And yet it had been no choice, a dark voice whispered, for Jo had never given him a chance. He turned her words over in his heart, trying to make them seem false, to convince himself that they would have rubbed along well together, but his own frank mind and ultimately honest heart bespoke him and forced him to concede, though it went against his unruly will, that which he had had such difficulty taming of late.

He had then turned his thoughts to his wife, and in light of Jo's words, he saw his own selfishness and thoughtlessness. Such shame accompanied this portion of his walk that he felt he could never show his face in his own house again, but that part of him that stretched towards manly ideals and responsibilities taught him that such shame could grow, for escape was neither manly, nor a solution.

This was not to say that he returned from his ordeal purged of all dark thoughts, nor entirely free of his dreadful yearnings, and some wiser, bleaker part of himself knew that they might never entirely be gone. For he was one with a great capacity to love, and he did perhaps love Jo more than she would ever have thought possible, and more than he had allowed himself to believe in the past, nor would in the future. But he also loved Amy, his beautiful, enchanting little woman, she who would be the mother of his children, and he knew that in loving her, there was no lack.

So the sober man who returned was greatly, though invisibly, altered from the headstrong boy who had left, in more than the chill that permeated his bones, for he had turned one of those corners into manhood that had yet been left him. He had left with a boyish open heart, thinking this meant that what he felt must be uttered, and must be right and true, for so it had been in his life. He returned with the heart of a man, one that was not closed, as so many seem to grow when they are spurned and hardened, but that was less vulnerable and better guarded, not from tender assaults from without, but from those attacks of melancholy and bitterness that rise up within when we have once given them a foothold. When we let our own paltry and small-minded concerns and self-indulgences take precedence over our duties and allegiances, we open ourselves to all manner of demons.

Such was his train of thought and seriousness of mind, his commitment to amend his ways, so that his family and friends need not suffer through his madness, that he was much taken aback to see the sisters in such close and congenial state, and his heart sank. Still, he stepped forward manfully to take his medicine, however dire it should be.

Therefore it was quite a shock to him when both well-beloved faces smiled upon him and wished him well.

"There you are, Laurie, we've just been talking of you," Amy said mischievously. She had her own darknesses, which urged her to torture him a bit, but she fought them back, for she had learned well the ugly path that temptation led to, and wished no part of it.

"You have?" Laurie approached them cautiously, a nervous smile on his face, and nothing on Jo's face gave him any sign of the content of their talk.

"Yes, and I think I've convinced Jo that it would be no injury to her pride or the Professor's to take you up on your offer to help them." Amy was saddened at the brief glimpse of relief she saw in his eyes, but she knew that as long as he thought that she was aware of his transgressions, putting it behind them would be ever so much more difficult, so she had sworn Jo to secrecy, and intended to behave as if she had never heard or seen a thing.

Jo nodded, rising to her feet and smoothing out her gown. "Yes, well, as long as you allow us to repay you as we can. We won't be charity cases, you know. And we won't have things of this sort come between us, for I don't know what I would do if we didn't have the pair of you as friends and neighbors." And saying this, she looked fiercely at Laurie, willing him to understand and accept.

Laurie laughed, and perhaps half of it was relief, and the other half confusion, but it sounded merry enough. "You know that what we have is yours, Jo, but I won't balk at any conditions you place on our assistance, as long as you let us be a part of your life, you and your Professor and your boys." He smiled down at her, and while there might still have been a bit of longing lurking deep within, she also understood his meaning, as she felt he understood hers.

"Well," she said, feeling that all the hidden messages and secrets and strong emotions had quite overrun her capacity to deal with them, "I'll be off now to find Fritz, and see if he's in any fit state to eat with such fineness as your wife displays." She took Laurie by the sleeve and stood on tip-toe to kiss his cheek, shaking his sleeve roughly as she did so. "You take care of her, you young hoodlum, see that you do."

"Always, Jo," he said quietly, his eyes locked on hers.

Sniffing sharply, she left them alone.

Laurie bent to kiss Amy's cheek, and she reached a hand up to keep his head there, looking at them both in the mirror. "You're so cold!" she exclaimed. "Have you been out without your hat and gloves?"

"And without my coat, for your husband is a sad and foolish man, and needs you desperately to watch over him." And as he said it, he knew it to be true, whatever else he felt in his heart.

She shook her head chidingly. "I shall say you do, perhaps even as much as I need you to keep me from sinking into the depths in which I've been dwelling lately." She closed her eyes and threaded her hand up into his hair, stroking gently. "You really are so dear to me, Teddy, and I feel I've neglected you shamefully lately."

He flushed, and looked at her sharply in the mirror, but when her eyes opened again, he saw nothing there to alarm him, nothing that indicated that the sisters had spoken of anything more than she had said. "That goes both ways, madam, and we are both to be punished for it, quite harshly."

She smiled, and let him go, then turned round to look up at him. "And what is our punishment to be, sir?"

He helped her up carefully, seeing now her pallor, and the way her hand went naturally to her lightly-swelled stomach. "We are condemned to each other's company for the next fortnight, wherever we go, and I am to bow to your every whim, no matter how capricious or ill-advised."

"And do you mean to say that my whims are often so, sir?"

"Aren't they all, by their very nature, my good lady?" And he bent to kiss her lightly, then more deeply, pleased at the rosy flush that lit her cheeks when he pulled back. "And now, I believe that dinner awaits us."

* * *

Dinner, for Jo, was a torturous affair, but that was true of formal dinners at the best of times, for her. The boys were off at their own table; she could hear their laughter and delighted in it, even as she wistfully thought how very unfair it was that adults had to be so polite and proper, so as not to scandalize society -- represented in this case by the elder Mr. Laurence and Laurie's godparents, who were there just for the evening.

Daisy held court with the younger set, even at her tender age quite content being the center of attention, and Demi waited upon her most seriously, handing her her napkin as required. Conversation among the adults was intent, as Laurie's grandfather had an interest in some of the same areas as the Professor, and, along with Mr. March, would have quite dominated the table, if Amy hadn't set herself to draw the others in, exhibiting her very best, most engaging manners. As it was, the table was lively, and laughter plentiful.

It was all quite charming and endearing, and Jo would have thought of nothing else, if she hadn't so often caught dark eyes cast her way, and feared that what clouded them were further maundering sentiments of the sort she'd had far too much of already. Amy never seemed to notice these, and yet always, within unsuspicious moments, she had laughed merrily, or leaned into him to share some private thought, or merely done something so fetching that his eyes were drawn and his attentions followed. Jo marveled at her sister, at her magnificent artistry and cunning ingenuity, for she felt that all these things transpired leaving Laurie entirely unaware of his own manipulation.

For his part, Laurie was torn, but as much at his own vacillation as anything. He still could not see how he could have such deep and enduring attachments for two such different women, when neither emotion seemed the cooler, more decorous affection of simple friendship. What he had yet to learn, though his lessons had been onerous already, was that first loves never truly disappear, when they have been so sweetly and effortlessly transmuted into an amity so heartfelt and cherished.

His heart was reluctant, even now, to absolve him of that first ardor, perhaps because in some way he felt that honor demanded constancy, and constancy demanded immutability. He could not fully understand how he no longer loved Jo as he once did, or believed he had, because he could not remember any point at which his affections had changed, not to fade away, but to become something other, something that could coexist with the devotion he felt for his wife.

And perhaps it was because, in some way, he did indeed love them both, and this was a thing with which he would have to learn to live, with the knowledge that some part of himself would always and forever belong to Jo, no matter what anyone might say to the contrary, no matter if she herself refused it.

Amy was, in her own way, well aware of the struggle that divided her husband's heart, for in spite of Jo's assurances, she was still not convinced that his declarations contained nothing of truth. But as she had told Jo, she did believe in his love, and was determined to do all she could to retain it. She also knew that even if he continued in his fervent regard, Jo was so entirely captured by the kindly, gentle Fritz that nothing would come of it, save Amy's own heartache, and that of her foolish, froward husband. And so her path seemed clear: to bewitch and beguile her own husband such that his capricious heart had no chance to waver, no reason to stray to another. For though young, she was worldly and wise enough to know that once that path of errant desire has been found, it was that much easier to find again.

All these thoughts, mindful and unheeding both, eddied and spun in the three heads, while those around them were insensible of these darker currents, focused only on the joys and pleasures of the company. Although it might be that one set of astute eyes watched and worried over her young ones, knowing them as she did, and held them all close to her heart, offering them up in fervent prayer and utter trust to He who knows us best of all. And such prayers are always answered, even when the answer means that those who struggle the hardest must perforce struggle onward, learning their lessons also in the hardest ways, so that they will not be forgotten another time.

Whether due to such heartfelt prayer, or because the human mind is incapable of long keeping such dire thoughts in the fore when surrounded by such brimful laughter and excitement as the Plumley boys had maintained now for days on end, they all felt a certain ease of their agonies in anticipation of the pageant before them. It was an extravaganza of the most extravagant sort, with pirates and knights and convicts and all those things that boys love best, laced with themes of redemption and forgiveness, and above all, love. The costumes and scenery were a triumph of boyish ingenuity and craft, and only provided one slight disaster when Demi tripped over his small sword, headlong into the castle wall. This caused such a roar of mirth from both the audience and the guards behind the wall that a mortified Demi ran off stage, and was only coaxed back out to take a bow when the laughter turned to applause and calls for his return.

All in all, it was a triumph, and nothing was so pleasing as those flushed, proud faces as they took their bows, and then demanded that Mother and Father Bhaer join them, as author and director of the farce. In the face of such delight and revelry, affairs of the heart were set aside, if only for the moment, and whole-hearted admiration won out.

After the acclamation died down, the boys made short, frenzied work of the scenery and props, and then demanded dancing, which was soon arranged. They set to with a will and pushed all the furniture up against the walls, clearing a great space for the gala. Jo sat down at the piano and began to bang out tunes, and when she was ready for a break, Marmee took her place, much to the delight of all. Free from their studies and curfews for the holidays, the boys were allowed to frolic to their heart's content, and were provided with copious refreshments by the servants, who had peered in the doors at the pageant, much to their own delight, and were pleased to be able to reward such industry.

Amy herself settled between her father and Mr. Laurence, with the Professor close by, and while they spoke together quietly and watched the gaiety, she had boys dancing attendance on her, trying to coax her out on the floor. She shooed them all away, laughing, sending them off to whisk Laurie's sedate godmother into a grand romp, and she found that the more she pretended to feel light-hearted and gay, the more it became true, for the heart is inclined to joy, and will take any chance to feel it. Such sights as John dancing his small daughter around on the floor, and her own parents taking a quiet turn, made her heart glad.

She did perhaps feel a small pang when she watched John waltzing Meg around the floor, but it soon passed in her pleasure at their enjoyment of a quiet moment with each other. When she looked for her own husband, she found him in a corner of the room with a few of the older boys, teaching them the finer points of a dance or two, for some of them would be going home to parties far finer than this one, and they were anxious to present themselves well.

When Jo left the piano, she sought them out, for she felt she should set a good example, and hoped that Amy's sedate and elegant presence would serve as her own model. Being an exuberant and lively creature, however, her feet soon began to tap, and Amy smiled at the picture of her harum-scarum sister trying to behave with decorum and dignity.

She leaned over and nudged Jo, and when Jo looked back, Amy laughed aloud at the expression on her face, and had a thought that she hoped would settle Jo's mind about Amy's own heart once and for all, for she had noticed Jo's worried looks when she thought Amy unaware. Jo had many accomplishments, but subtlety was seldom one of them. "You look as you used to when Meg wheedled you into accompanying her to one of her parties, Jo, dear, but this isn't like that. You're home here! If you want to dance, go dance! No one will fault you. And I have just the fellow for you."

As if by magic, and belying the idea that any distance had crept between them, she caught Laurie's eye in a moment, beckoning him over. He came at once, and he might have cast a wary look between them, but Amy paid no mind to that and came direct to the point. "Sir, I have a task for you, one very dear to my heart, and I hope that you will attend, and carry it out with the utmost speed and grace."

"Your will is as my own, lady, and whatever thou wilt, I will endeavor to accomplish," he said, with a wink at Jo that was so like his old, best-loved self that she laughed to see it.

"Then, sir, it is my wish that you take my lady sister and cast her about the dance floor with great fervor and energy, for I fear that if someone does not, she will waste away for the want of it."

Laurie's hesitation was so brief that it might have been imagined, and he turned to Jo with a flourish, offering his arm. Jo herself was nonplussed, and for once without a word to say, so Amy laughed and pushed her into Laurie's arms, crying, "Do go, Jo, you love a grand romp, and I'm not up for it."

And what a glorious romp it was, all around the room, and they danced well together, having had much practice. Laurie was all confusion, though he hid it well, as Jo fit in his arms as though she belonged there, and yet he knew she did not, could not. And before he could convince himself of anything, she was gone, stolen away first by Franz, then Emil, then all of her boys, one after another, each one eager to lay claim to her attention and laughter.

And if, while they still danced together, Amy took the time to see where Laurie's attentions lay, and how they suited, well, we can't fault her for that. The sunny smile on her face never dimmed, and if her hand held a little tightly to her handkerchief, I don't think it would be an intrusion to say that her feelings were full of gratitude that she had had a warning of rough weather, in time to steer her little boat into safe harbor.

fin

 


End file.
